With a Red Right Hand
by BittahWizard
Summary: An Assassins!AU that starts out slow but ends with a bang. / Steter Week 2019. Day 6. My pick? Daddy Kink. / Story inspired by "Red Right Hand" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
1. On a Gathering Storm

"—again, we here at Miami International want to apologize for any inconvenience the storm has caused. To pick up your complimentary hotel voucher, please proceed to gate—"

Stiles represses a sigh, his thumbs idly twitching at his phone.

Good God, he hates Miami.

Stiles just spent five days in a fucking marsh waiting for his target and all he wants to do is go home. But it looks like he's about to stay in this god-forsaken city for another 12 hours—either in a Motel 8 or awkwardly arranged in this stupidly uncomfortable terminal chair (seriously, can a chair have _negative_ back support?).

Stiles cracks his neck sharply and decides to give himself another moment to wallow in his shitty luck.

After a few minutes, he stops pretending to be busy on his phone and does a subtle perimeter sweep as he stretches.

Nurse. Policeman. Barista. Stripper. Retail. Clerk. Assassin. Gro—

Wait.

Stiles mentally backpedals, bending forward to peek up under his lashes as he slowly double-knots his high-top.

Oh sweet sexy biscuits, that is 100% someone Stiles would like to have on top of him.

And behind him.

And in front of him.

Okay, just mark him down for _all over, please._

He's also 83% sure he's a—_ahem_—fellow freelancer.

It's the eyes that give him away.

To anybody else—to anybody but Stiles—the man sitting across from him would be just another rich, smartly dressed asshole. But Stiles sees the world a bit differently.

Specifically, through metaphorical gray-colored glasses.

The man may be wearing a sharp three-piece suit, but his gaze is even sharper.

He lounges like a predator, sprawled in a way that's anything but casual. His brown hair is neatly parted and swept back, and there's a faint layer of scruff darkening the edges of his mouth and jaw.

The suit he wears is a deep charcoal color and the man's shoes shine even in the hazy fluorescent lighting of the airport terminal.

All together it paints a simple picture of money and control, but Stiles can't shake those eyes.

Stiles knows in his gut that this isn't just some CEO, because sociopathic those corporate sharks may be, none has ever set off Stiles' internal alarm the way the man across from him does.

He's never actually met another like him in the field before.

It's absolutely _thrilling_.

Stiles allows himself a few filthy thoughts about how good that suit would feel pressed up against his bare ass before he dismisses the fantasy quickly. He knows exactly how dating a—erhm, "coworker" ends. Just look at Scott and Allison—Stiles still can't unsee the events of last Arbor Day. He shudders at the memory.

Too messy.

Also, he's still technically on the clock. He really shouldn't mix business with pleasure—that's a whole different kind of mess.

Paperwork.

He shudders again.

So he dismisses it, that wickedly wonderful fantasy.

At least, he _was_ about to dismiss it—but then he glances back at the man's eyes.

They're blue and clear, and behind them, Stiles sees shrewdness.

And carefully repressed violence.

_That_ confirms his hunch. And makes him wary.

And very, _very_ turned on.

Stiles slouches further in his seat, taking another lazy look around the emptying terminal. When he glances back at the man, he has to hold back a twitch of alarm.

He's staring at Stiles.

Those bright baby-blues are measuring him, not as quick to overlook him and his frumpy college aesthetic as most people are.

Stiles meets that stare head-on, and what he finds hidden in the depths of their exchange excites him.

The man is _definitely_ like him.

It's all there, written in that calculation and control.

Oh, and in the Agency-issued prototype-4 smartwatch wrapped around his wrist.

Stiles feels a little smug about Danny sneaking him the prototype-6 from R&D two months ago.

Stiles smirks, and can't help but wonder what the man sees—if he can see the truth of Stiles in the same way Stiles can see it of him. It'd be harder to spot, he muses, considering Stiles isn't one for _control _(and he's still really bad about remembering to wear the damn watch—sorry Danny).

Sure, he's tried to change—given that his superiors always tend to point it out in their feedback—but he just can't seem to get the hang of it. Every assignment always starts with good intentions, with him wanting to play the role of the cool and collected—ahem—_contractor_, but it always ends the same.

Chaos.

Stiles makes plans—detailed, wonderful plans—but they all just sort of devolve.

His only saving grace is that he operates best under pressure. The Agency likes to say that there's a method to Stiles' madness, but he thinks it's apter to say that his method _is_ madness.

It's become his calling card, so much so that it gave him his name in the business.

_Loki. _

And it's that very same madness that has him thinking, _fuck it_, and checking the gorgeous man out just one more time.

Stiles takes in the man's tight body, the way his neck and his shoulders look just a little too bulky for someone who sits in board meetings all day. He lets the man catch him biting his bottom lip appreciatively, tongue darting out to soothe the ache.

The handsome suit sits up straighter, eyes narrowing heatedly as he unbuttons his jacket and smooths down his tie.

Stiles has to repress a moan at the image of that tie—of that dark purple silk—wrapped around his own wrists because he's been _so naughty_. He shivers delightedly at the thought.

Stiles can't help but wonder if the man likes to play the same games that he does. If he, too, would shiver with lust at what Stiles wants him to do to his body.

He's learned that most men like the way Stiles plays, especially when they peel him out of his skinny jeans and find what's hidden underneath.

Or when they have their cocks buried in his throat.

Yeah, most guys are pretty agreeable after that.

But with this devilishly handsome, capital "M" _Man_, Stiles doesn't just want _agreeable_.

It's been five days of nothing but mosquitoes and rain, of 250-pound drug cartel henchmen that _won't fucking stay down_ and frantically Googling the symptoms of trench-foot.

So fuck that, Stiles doesn't want agreeable.

He wants someone to put him in his place. He wants someone to tell him how pretty he looks with a cock drilling his ass and cum dribbling down his chin.

He wants a _Daddy_.

And by the way the not-quite-silver fox tracks Stiles as he stands and makes his way to the restroom, he's pretty sure he's found one.


	2. Tell You That You've Been a Good Boy

By Stiles' count, it takes 47 seconds for the handsome stranger to follow him inside.

As soon as Stiles walks into the restroom he starts counting, checking his reflection in the mirror quickly as he times the man. Then he kicks open each stall door to make sure nobody will be getting a front-row porcelain throne to what's about to happen.

It's either going to be a fight or a fuck—hopefully both—and while Stiles may indulge himself in a few kinks, exhibitionism isn't really one of them.

He's just finished kicking in the final stall door when he hears the faint squeak of the door opening and closing.

And then the click of a deadbolt latching into place.

Goddamn, Stiles is about to _get it_.

He feels adrenaline start to course through his body at the sound of steadily approaching footsteps. Stiles pivots slowly in the cubicle's doorway, relaxing his shoulder against the stall's frame as he turns to face the man.

_Holy mother of Captain Crunch_, he's even more beautiful up close. Stiles can see every little detail now, and he is _not_ disappointed. Everything that made him sexy as hell from a distance just makes him breathtaking in HD. His scruff is darker, his suit is crisper, his hair seems more meticulously parted.

Even his eyes seem sharper, cutting through Stiles in a way he's never felt before. His head is tilted in a curious angle and his skin seems more tan than it did under the terminal's harsh lighting. The man's got one hand resting in his trouser pocket and the other…

Well, the other is casually holding a shiny SIG Sauer.

Huh.

He's cocky enough to bring a metal gun to an international airport.

Stiles thinks this might be love.

It also answers the question of whether the suit was able to spot Stiles as Stiles spotted him.

That would be a firm_ yes_.

"Assignment number and designation."

_Oh_. That's more of a _hell yes_.

Guh, that _voice_. Stiles has to hold back a shiver at the man's smooth baritone.

When Stiles just smiles at him and doesn't say anything, the guy lets out a quiet huff of annoyance. "Assignment number and designation."

Stiles peeks up at the man from under the dark fringe of his lashes, eyes wide and innocent. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mister."

The man frowns, taking out a suppressor from the inside of his jacket and slowly screwing it onto the muzzle of his pistol. He tuts at Stiles. "My, my, that's quite the predicament we've found ourselves in. You see, if you _did_ know what I was talking about," he gestures between them with his gun, "then that would mean we're on the same team, as it were. But now that I know you're _not_..." the man shrugs, unapologetic. "Well, that just means you're an outlier."

He rakes his gaze over Stiles from head to toe. "A dangerous one, by my estimation." The man's eyes hover a little too long on Stiles' mouth, and Stiles can just make out the man's whispered, "_Very_ dangerous."

Oh, baby, _yes_.

They stare at each other for a few more seconds before Stiles lets his Bambi act drop. He grins at the man wickedly. "You have no idea what game we're playing, do you?"

The gorgeous devil's brow furrows a little, but he waves off Stiles' question. "This is your last chance. Be a good boy and tell me what I need to know."

At those words, the predator sleeping in the back of Stiles' mind perks up. His grin turns vicious and his dick gets hard. "A good boy? Oh, _Daddy_—all you had to do was ask." And then Stiles reaches behind himself and grips the top of the stall, swinging his body out violently. He kicks out out a long leg and knocks the gun out of Mr. Suit's hand, releasing the stall and ducking to the floor just in time to miss the guy's fist crush his windpipe.

Crouched low, Stiles launches himself at the man's legs with a vicious swipe of his own. When he goes to pull his ankle back, the guy turns his foot so that Stiles' is trapped. Stiles uses their locked ankles as momentum to slide across the linoleum and under the man's spread legs.

He delivers three quick, nasty kicks to the back of the guy's left knee, flipping back up neatly when the Suit's knee crumples and he falls forward.

Stiles doesn't waste any time watching him try to stagger back up, jumping forward and wrapping himself around the man's muscled back. He winds his legs into the man's groin and _squeezes_, locking his elbow around the Suit's throat simultaneously.

He lurches at Stiles' weight, gasping for breath as he struggles to get his knee back under him.

When he straightens, Stiles still wrapped around him like a vice, he hurtles backward into the sink basin. Stiles tightens his grip, and the guy tries to dislodge him again, slamming him into the hand-dryer.

The loud whir of the air-dryer kicks on, Stiles' hiss at the metal digging into his back getting lost in the noise.

The guy levers them off the wall and then wraps his large hands over Stiles' and _yanks_, pulling Stiles up and over his head. Stiles lands hard on the tile floor, sucking in quick, ragged breaths.

He grins up at the man towering over him and savagely kicks at his ankle, causing the man to stumble forward until Stiles is just in reach of that brilliant, purple, _dangling_ tie.

He sees it as soon as Daddy understands what he's about to do, and the violent rage in the man's eyes makes Stiles moan out loud.

Stiles wraps a hand around that gorgeous silk tie and pulls until the man has no choice but to go down with it. He lands on top of Stiles with a delicious _slap!_

There's something cold at his neck, so Stiles tilts his head just enough to see that the man has a thin stiletto pressed against his throat.

Oh, _fuck._

"God, you're gorgeous," Stiles breathes out. He can't help but giggle at the man's disconcerted flinch.

Stiles uses his free hand to pinch the guy's chin, forcing him to look at where Stiles has his own gun (small and plastic, because he's a _professional_, thank you) pressed into the man's gut.

That violent rage mellows to a violent sort of respect, and Stiles can't stop grinning.

"You little bastard," the man pants, equal parts angry and incredulous, and glaring at the Agency logo etched into the side of Stiles' gun. "Why couldn't you just tell me your assignment number and designation?!"

Stiles rolls his head back and forth across the floor, chuckling softly. "Because I wanted to see you in action." Stiles fake-glares up at him. "Besides, it's not like you gave me yours."

The man huffs. "I asked first. It's procedure."

"It's pro-_ce_-dure," Stiles mocks childishly.

The man lets all of his weight drop onto Stiles in retaliation.

Yeah. Like feeling every inch of that chiseled body is some sort of _punishment?_

Stiles can't help the gasp of pure _want_ that escapes him.

"Recruits these days," the Suit drawls. "Where are they digging you children up? A middle school career-day fair?"

Stiles huffs dramatically. "Now that's just hurtful." He quickly lifts his head and bites the man's chin. "I'd rather you hurt me in other ways."

The man's face goes entirely blank. "What?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I already told you that you didn't know what game we're playing." Stiles grinds his hips upward, his erection hard and aching against the man's firm belly. "I meant it."

Mr. Suit looks down between them. Stiles can see the moment when the realization hits home when the man's shapely eyebrows fly upward.

He looks genuinely surprised. "You mean you...? And I—? You want to...?"

Stiles nods seriously, biting his lower lip and giving the man his best seductive look. "Oh yeah, big guy. I _definitely _want to." He grinds his hips again. "I wanted to as soon as I saw you."

He drops his gun and runs his hand over the man's pert ass. "It's Loki, by the way," he murmurs distractedly.

The man stills above him and pins Stiles with a funny look. Then he throws his head back and laughs, giving Stiles a great view of his lovely throat.

"What's so funny?" Stiles asks, hand still fondling and squeezing _that ass_.

The man's grin turns a different kind of predatory. It's the kind that actually makes Stiles want to be good.

Be _so damn good_.

Stiles' breath hitches in his throat as the man lowers his face until their lips are barely touching. "It's nice to meet you, Loki. I've heard a lot about you."

He drops his knife and buries his hand in Stiles' thick hair. "I'm Fenrir," he rasps.

Then he slants his mouth over Stiles' in a rough, punishing kiss.

The man bites Stiles' lip as he retreats, rocking his hips slowly against Stiles as he does. Stiles stares up at him, awed and quiet and _so very_ horny. The suit, Code Name: Fenrir, turned Stiles' new Daddy, leans back in and whispers. "But you can call me Peter."


	3. He's a God, He's a Man

"_Peter_," Stiles breathes out, arching upward against the smooth, steady roll of the man's hips. He grabs a handful of the sexy bastard's hair and pulls him down for another kiss.

Stiles moans as Peter licks into his mouth leisurely, like he has all of the time in the world to dominate Stiles with his tongue.

_God,_ Stiles hopes that's true.

Stiles breaks away from their kiss and dazedly looks up at Peter's blissed-out expression. "Please tell me you'll let me suck your cock," he pants, licking his swollen lips. "_Please_—I'll be so good. I'll make it _so fucking good_ for you."

He can feel Peter's whole body shudder against his own, and he watches as the man's eyes dilate even further.

"Is that what you want, baby?" Peter growls lowly, grinding slowly against Stiles' erection. "You wanna suck my cock?" He bites at Stiles' throat. "Fuck, that's hot."

Peter picks himself up off of Stiles and gets to his feet. He expertly flicks his knife closed and stashes it in his suit jacket. He grins down at Stiles and walks over him, feet straddling both sides of Stiles' waist.

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath as Peter stands over him, looks him directly in the eye, and squeezes himself through his pants. He strokes himself languidly with one hand and uses the other to crook a demanding finger at Stiles. "If you want it, you'll have to come and get it."

Stiles has never felt so beholden to his own lust in his entire life. He's never felt such a sharp stab of longing—and he's certainly never felt _desperate._

But he feels it now, that ache. It's in the fog in his head, the quiver in his knees, and the shake in his hands. It's in the throb of his cock and the saliva pooling in the back of his throat.

But most of all, it's in the loud _crack! _of his knees against the tile floor as he hastily scrambles to sit up.

He can't help the low whine that emanates from him as he looks up at Peter from his knees.

The man, as calm as you please, hums at Stiles' quick compliance. He unbuttons his jacket and carefully shrugs it off his broad shoulders. Peter takes the time to gently hang it over the top of the stall, never looking away from where Stiles is waiting desperately at his feet.

It's when Peter's mouth parts slightly in surprise that Stiles understands what he's doing.

He's _testing_ Stiles, wanting to see what buttons he can push and how hard he can push them.

How hard Stiles _wants_ him to push them.

Poor baby really _doesn't_ know what game they're playing.

Stiles will just have to show him.

He watches raptly as Peter starts to unbutton and roll up his sleeves. Stiles can't help softening his gaze and licking his lips, or lowering his twitching hands to rest on the tops of his thighs.

The beast that lurks in the back of his mind goes quiet, and then all that's left is Stiles.

He wants to show Peter what being good means. Stiles wants to show him that he can wait patiently. He wants to show him that he'll wait—and if needed, _beg_—for Peter's permission to suck his cock, that the only thing he wants is what _Daddy_ wants.

Stiles is getting into that subby headspace he always searches for—the one that's sometimes too hard to reach—and it's absolutely _divine_.

He's never sunk so quickly before.

It's never felt so visceral, so raw. He's never felt this needy before in his life and it feels like a damn high.

It feels _addicting_.

A few steamy looks, a quick little attempted murder, and Stiles can't imagine a moment where he's not here, kneeling at this glorious man's feet.

Stiles swallows as Peter finishes rolling up his sleeves. It's jarring, the reminder that he's known this man for all of ten minutes and already finds himself becoming addicted to the lust building between them.

For a man like him, that's dangerous.

For a man like him, that's utterly _delicious_.

After all, Stiles wouldn't be, well, _Stiles_ if he didn't thrive on danger.

So when Peter lifts his chin with a finger and says, "Show me what you've got," Stiles doesn't hesitate.

He slides his hands slowly up Peter's legs, Stiles' long fingers mapping out the man's sculpted thighs. He flicks open Peter's slacks with a thumb, the sound of Peter's zipper unfurling loud in the quiet of the restroom.

Stiles curls his hands into the waistband of Peter's pants and tugs them until they're resting under the curve of his ass. He moans softly at the sight of Peter's hard length tenting the front of a pair of tight black boxer briefs.

Stiles scoots closer, eyes locked with Peter's as he leans in and suckles at the head of Peter's cock through his underwear. He drags greedy hands up and under Peter's shirt, scratching his nails lightly against Peter's abs as Stiles laves his tongue in slow circles. Peter's stomach flexes under Stiles' hands, his breath hitching slightly as Stiles releases him from his hot mouth.

Stiles trails his hands back to Peter's waist, pulling his briefs down just far enough for the man's thick cock to escape.

"Oh, fuck," Stiles moans, wrapping one hand around Peter's length. He knew from Peter's bulge that he was big, but _goddamn_.

He slowly works Peter's dick in his hand, smearing the precum leaking from the tip across the head with his thumb.

Stiles lets go of Peter and places his palms back on his own thighs like a good boy. Then he takes Peter's cock into his mouth and shows the man _exactly_ what he's got.

The sound of Peter's guttural groan is ridiculously gratifying. Stiles gently works his mouth down even farther, hollowing his cheeks as he does. He looks up at Peter as he leisurely tilts his head back until the just the tip of Peter's cock is resting against Stiles' lips.

Peter moans, one hand coming to grip the base of his cock as Stiles gives the head a spitty kiss. "Fuck," Peter rasps, eyes riveted on Stiles' clever mouth.

Stiles winks up at him before taking the length back in his mouth, swallowing and swallowing until he has half of Peter's dick in his mouth. He gurgles softly, dragging his tongue lightly along the shaft.

Stiles grips his knees tightly as he starts to bob his head a bit faster, the rhythm in time to the steady throb of his own aching cock.

He allows himself to close his eyes as Peter gradually starts to thrust against his face, savoring the sweet sounds of Peter's choppy breaths and the slick slurp of Peter's cock lazily fucking his face.

Stiles opens his eyes halfway and feels his balls tighten at the sight of Peter leaning backward, his head thrown back in pleasure and the man's hands casually resting on the back of his hips. The man looks totally at ease, like slowly skull-fucking Stiles in an airport restroom is something that just comes naturally to him.

That it's something _owed _to him.

And, _fucking hell_, Stiles has to agree.

He picks up his pace, lowering his head further and further down the length of Peter's dick as he does.

"Just like that, baby—_just like that_," Peter gasps out when Stiles takes him down his throat for the first time. Peter's hands—lightning fast—reach out and grab Stiles by the hair when his nose presses against Peter's groin.

Stiles looks up, tears in his eyes and cock buried deep in his throat, and sees a _very_ pleased Peter.

Peter holds him there, gaze intent and curious, like he didn't expect that Stiles would take him that far.

Or that he would _like pushing_ Stiles that far.

And it's clear that he, indeed, _does_, considering Stiles is carefully breathing through his nose as his throat spasms around Peter's thick cock.

He coughs roughly, spit dribbling down his chin and pooling on the floor as he gags on Peter's huge dick.

"Fuck that's tight," Peter growls, slowly starting to thrust in and out of Stiles' throat. He cradles the back of Stiles' head in his hands and looks down at Stiles in wonder. "You're just taking me all the way down your tight little throat, aren't you? Look at that." He wipes a finger down Stiles' sloppy, wet chin and rests a heavy hand on his jaw. "Has anyone ever told you that you're beautiful with a cock in your mouth? I bet they have. God, I don't even care how many. You should be told that every _fucking_ day, baby." Peter thrusts faster, Stiles blinking up at him through bleary eyes. "Fucking gorgeous."

Peter slows down, his hips now just barely grinding into Stiles' face. Stiles chases Peter's cock, mouth wide open and soft, when the man pulls all of the way out. Peter bends down low and sticks his thumb in Stiles' eager mouth before he can whine about his new favorite toy being taken away. "I want to fuck you on the sink. Is that all right, sweetheart?"

Oh.

_Oh._

Yes, _please_.

Stiles nods rapidly, dutifully sucking at the digit stroking his tongue.

Peter leans down even lower, kissing Stiles hard as he lifts him from up under his armpits like a rag doll. Stiles wraps his arms and legs around Peter as he carries Stiles' pliant body over to the sink basin.

Setting him down on the edge, Peter starts ripping off Stiles' shoes. Peter doesn't stop kissing him even as he unbuttons Stiles' jeans and works them down his legs.

It's when Peter has to step back to yank them off his legs that Stiles gets to revel in the man's reaction.

It's _everything_.

Peter looks at Stiles like a starving man being served his favorite meal.

Like a starving man that didn't even _know what food was _being led into a buffet.

His eyes rove up and down Stiles' long bare legs, from his white, silky low-rise briefs all of the way down to his matching lace-trimmed ankle socks.

Peter runs a tentative hand across Stiles' bulge and down his right leg. He hitches it up until Stiles' ankle is resting on his shoulder, his lace-covered foot brushing Peter's cheek.

Stiles leans back on his elbows, chest heaving under his tight t-shirt as he asks, "Do you like them, Daddy?"

Peter lurches, a startled moan escaping him at Stiles' words. He closes his eyes tightly and fists himself, staving off an orgasm.

Stiles waits with bated breath until Peter reopens his eyes.

He isn't disappointed by what he finds looking back at him.

Peter looks absolutely _wrecked_.

"You said that earlier," Peter pants, deep voice wavering. "Why did you call me that?"

Stiles giggles and leans back until he's lying flat on the basin. He lifts his other leg until it's perched on Peter's other shoulder, and then he locks his ankles together behind the man's neck. "Why?" Stiles repeats, wriggling his silk-clad ass closer until it grinds against Peter's dripping cock. "Because you're my _Daddy_, of course."

Peter moans loudly, turning his face toward Stiles' ankle and nuzzling it, the man's cheeks a little rosy. "You're a fucking menace, baby."

Stiles beams, one hand sliding down his body seductively and the other massaging his cock. "Thank you, Daddy."

He stifles another moan in Stiles' lacy sock before snaking a determined hand down Stiles' leg, only stopping when he reaches Stiles' tight ass.

Peter yanks Stiles' soft briefs to the side, exposing him—and the black plug he'd worked into himself before he'd gotten to the airport.

Peter sucks in a sharp breath and then growls. Stiles swears that he sees Peter's eyes flash even bluer. He forgets it quickly as a harsh swat lands right over the plug buried in his ass.

"What is _this?_" Peter demands.

"Oh, fuck, Daddy! It's—" he gasps wetly as another smack lands on his asshole. "It's my favorite plug." Stiles can't understand why Daddy sounds so mad. It'll make it easier for Daddy to fuck him when he's nice and stretched.

"And why do you have it in you, baby? Are you the kind of naughty boy that needs to be open for just any dick that wants inside?"

Oh.

_Oh_.

"No, Daddy, no!" Stiles whimpers. "I use it for after missions. It helps me unwind on flights home. It keeps me focused and lets me work through the after-effects of the adrenaline." He needs Daddy to know, to believe him. He isn't a bad boy, he's _so good_. He's only a slut when he chooses to be. "You're not just a whim, Daddy. I don't do _this_ with just anyone."

The violent glint in Peter's eyes dims. "It's okay, baby," Peter soothes, wiping away the tears that have gathered in Stiles' eyes. He shakes his head a little, seemingly bewildered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—it's okay. I—I don't know what came over me." He cups Stiles' cheek gently. "I know you've done this before and I meant it when I said I don't care. You're so beautiful, and you're here with me." He kisses the arch of Stiles' foot and whispers, "And that's good enough for me. Perfect, in fact."

And then Peter slowly works the plug out of Stiles and puts it in his pocket. "You forgive me, baby?" Peter murmurs, hands running calmly up and down Stiles' legs.

Stiles nods slowly, biting his lower lip. "Of course, Daddy. Please—" he chokes out. "Please fuck me."

Peter doesn't hesitate. He trusts inside, every glorious inch slamming into Stiles at once.

Stiles' legs start to shake as Peter works himself inside until his balls are flush against Stiles' ass. "That's so good, baby," Peter coos. "Now be a good boy and hold yourself open for me."

It takes a few seconds for Stiles' fuzzy brain to process the order before his hands get with the program and reach for his ass. He grips a cheek in each hand and spreads himself, making sure to stretch his underwear to the side so that Daddy has easier access.

Peter thrusts once, twice, before purring out a satisfied, "Thank you, sweetheart." He pulls all of the way out, dazedly taking in the soft gape of Stiles' ass before slamming back inside. There's a slight pause, like Peter's trying to hold something in, before he murmurs softly, "Now hold on while Daddy fucks your sweet little asshole."

Stiles shrieks as Peter enters him roughly, his cries loud enough that the man slaps a hand over his mouth. Peter quickly turns on all the taps around them do drown out their noise, and then, with a final kiss to Stiles' tear-stained cheek, he starts to fuck him.

Stiles can't help it—he comes. He's been hard since he first spotted Peter sitting across from him, and those first sloppy thrusts are just hard enough to have his dick spurting and his ass clenching around Peter's pounding cock.

"Oh, good _fucking_ boy," Peter growls, smacking Stiles hard on the ass as he watches cum ooze out of Stiles' untouched cock. "Coming on Daddy's cock like that." He pistons into Stiles, the slick slap of their skin painfully erotic.

"Yes, _yes_..." Stiles pants. His eyes roll back as Peter angles his hips towards Stiles' prostate. "For you, Daddy. Only for you. Love your cock. _So good_."

Peter fucks into him, changing his pace every dozen or so thrusts in a way that keeps Stiles guessing and his already-spent dick rock hard.

It's the best sex Stiles has ever had.

And with Peter grinding against his prostate, almost fully dressed and with his eyes glued on Stiles' ruddy face, Stiles falls in-fucking-_love_.

It's stupid and it's crazy and it makes no fucking sense, but Stiles is in love with this stranger fucking his brains out in an airport bathroom. Anyone that can fight and fuck like this man can is someone that deserves Stiles' love.

So Stiles lets him know.

He nips lovingly at the fingers covering his mouth until Peter lets him go, only to drag that deadly right hand down to grip Stiles' throat. "Oh, _yes_, Daddy!" he gasps. "Thank you, Daddy. Love the way you fill me up. Never had it like this, _never_." Stiles fists his cock, a second orgasm building in his belly. "I love your cock so much, Daddy. I want it every single day, just like this. Want you to put me in my place and have your way with me—"

Peter's hips stutter. The hand around Stiles' throat tenses and releases.

"You like that?" Stiles whispers, hand working his cock roughly. "You like the idea of me being your little fuck-toy? Because I do. I _love_ it, Daddy. I want you to bend me over any time, anywhere. Want your cock down my throat and your cum in my ass. I need it so bad, Daddy. Need you to fill me up until—"

And then Peter does, fucking into Stiles hard as he howls out his release.

He fucks them both through it, hard and fast enough that Stiles' eyes cross, his lungs seize, his toes curl, and his whole body quakes against the sink. He screams as he comes again, body going limp as Peter uses his clenching ass to wring out every last drop of his own pleasure.

Stiles drifts for a while, coming to with Peter plastered to his chest and biting along his neck.

The man's cock is still in him and Stiles can feel hot cum beginning to ooze out of his hole. He moans, clenching tightly around Peter.

"That…" Peter croaks, "was amazing, you beautiful boy."

Stiles smiles up at him, grin blissed-out and crooked. "I can't feel my legs."

Peter snorts and continues to nibble on Stiles' neck. "I'm glad I'm not the only one." He grinds into Stiles softly and then lifts his head just enough to meet Stiles' cum-drunk gaze. "Want to share my complimentary hotel voucher?" He looks down at where they're joined and then around the room. "I'm going to be honest and say that I've got plans for this ass, and I think a change of venue might be necessary for a few of the more…_intricate_ ideas."

Chuckling, Stiles rolls his head to look up at the ceiling. "You'd make quite the salesman in another life, Daddy. Asking a boy to share your bed after thoroughly ruining him for anyone else? That's top-tier marketing, that is."

Peter smiles wickedly at him, and Stiles swears that his teeth seem sharper at the ends. He blinks, and then it's gone.

Huh.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Stiles nods sleepily, content to just lie here with his Daddy.

It's silent for a moment before Peter clears his throat.

Stiles cracks one eye open. "Yeah?"

Peter looks at him neutrally. Stiles raises an eyebrow.

"It's just—" Peter wipes a hand down his scruff and huffs. "Well, alright—what's your name?"

Stiles blinks.

And then he bursts out laughing.


	4. A Shadow is Cast Wherever He Stands

"Wow. That's gotta be the sexiest car I've ever seen."

Peter huffs and unlocks the vehicle. "Shut up, Stiles."

Stiles just laughs, tossing his duffel into the backseat. "I think I might have to reevaluate our relationship here, man. Good taste is something I look for in a partner, and well…" he tilts his head at the silver car. "This might be a dealbreaker."

Peter growls, rushing forward and crowding Stiles up against the passenger door. He lowers his head and nips at the side of Stiles' throat. "Make jokes all you want, baby," Peter whispers smugly into his ear. "We both know my cum is plugged up in your sweet ass and that you can't wait for another round."

Stiles can't help but shiver in anticipation at the thought.

"Besides," Peter continues, pushing away and prowling around to the other side of the car. "It was the only rental those bastards at Enterprise had left." And then he ducks into the car.

Stiles pouts, adjusting himself in his jeans and before getting in. "No need to get all defensive, Fido." He buckles himself in as Peter pulls away from the lot.

"I was just commenting on the hilarity of the situation at hand. A cunning, deadly, international assassin." Stiles gestures at Peter. "Driving a…" he gestures at the car's interior. "Toyota Camry." Stiles can't help the mean little grin that spreads across his face. "This is practically a James Bond sequel."

Peter pinches him in the thigh while deftly navigating them out of the airport's busy parking garage. "You've got quite the mouth on you."

Stiles' grin grows wider. "You would know."

"I can't believe I'm going to share my hotel voucher with you."

"Ah, yes. Coupons, the epitome of romance."

Peter can't help but crack a smile. "Fuck, I like you."

Stiles reaches over and grabs ahold of Peter's hand. "The feeling's mutual, Daddy."

He notices as Peter's eyes grow brighter at his words.

And that brings Stiles to the next bullet point on his list:

_1\. __Don't get killed by that fine ass Daddy_

_2\. __Have mind-blowing sex with that fine ass Daddy (hopefully #1 has happened or this list is absolutely fucked)_

_3\. Latch onto Daddy and make sure he knows that he's not allowed to leave. Ever._

_4\. Talk to Daddy about the whole werewolf thing_

_5\. Have more sex_

_6\. Eat weight in tacos _

"So," Stiles clears his throat obnoxiously. Peter looks over at him indulgently as he expertly maneuvers through traffic. "I'd like for this to continue."

Peter raises an imperious eyebrow. "I thought that was what we were doing."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, untangling his hand from Peter's and curling his fingers nervously into his jeans. "I just…I want this to continue even beyond, you know, the voucher."

Peter blinks, his chest tightening uncomfortably at the mere thought of never seeing Stiles again. "I concur."

"I mean, I kno—" Stiles cuts himself short and looks over at Peter. "Wait, hold on. You _concur?_"

"Yes. I want to see you again after this. Preferably kneeling at my feet again. I quite enjoyed that."

Stiles barks out an incredulous laugh. "I'm sure you did." He leans back against the headrest and mumbles. "God, you _concur_. Why do I even _like_ you? Jesus Christ on a tortilla, you're _that_ asshole."

He looks over at Peter, all strong lines and sharp edges, and smiles to himself. Stiles snatches up Peter's hand again and starts to pet it. "It takes all kinds, I guess."

"I'm so glad you think so, darling," Peter mutters, his grumbled huff hitching as Stiles starts licking softly at Peter's knuckles. "Fuck, _Stiles_."

"Don't worry, Daddy," Stiles says sweetly. "I won't distract you too much." He grins wickedly as he drags an incisor along the pad of Peter's thumb. "It's not like I'd ever blow you in a Toyota Camry."

Peter's eyes darken as he glances hungrily at Stiles. "But you would in the right kind of car, is that it, baby?"

"Uh-huh," Stiles answer distractedly. He blows air on Peter's spit-slick palm and the man's fingers twitch. He looks up smugly, Stiles' smirk softening as he meets Peter's intense gaze.

"Good to know," Peter rasps, voice pitched low and promising.

_Guh_.

And now Stiles is seriously reconsidering his rule about blowjobs in Toyota Camrys.

He shakes his head a little to reorient himself. "Anyway," Stiles traces the lines running across Peter's wide palm. "Now that you're my Daddy and I'm your good little fuck toy, I think we should get to know a little more about each other. What do you say?"

Peter's fingers tighten on the wheel at the words _good little fuck toy_ and he nods stiffly, eyes absolutely _burning_ as he glances over at Stiles. "Good idea, sweetheart. But if you keep talking like that, I'm going to end up fucking you along the side of the road. Understand?"

Stiles giggles. "Okay, okay. So." He gets serious. Or, as serious as Stiles can get. "What's your kill count?"

Peter chokes on air. "_What?_"

"Your kill count. What is it? I'm looking to be impressed here."

"People usually ask for a favorite color or pizza topping."

Stiles shrugs. "Well, I guess you talk to really boring people, then. But if you want to play it that way, fine. My favorite color is purple, and I will die on the hill that bacon on pizza is the pinnacle of culinary innovation."

Peter lets out a low chuckle. "So, you really liked my tie, huh?"

Stiles swallows. "Yeah, Daddy. I _really_ like the tie."

"Hmmm," Peter muses. He intertwines his fingers with Stiles'. "Burgundy. Jalapeños."

Stiles laughs. "Really? Interesting."

Peter nods, eyes fixed on the road. "342."

Stiles doesn't even hesitate, he just breathes out slowly and squeezes Peter's hand gently. "129."

"That's pretty good," Peter snarks, pulling into the most secluded area of the hotel's parking lot. "For a baby assassin." He winks at Stiles.

Stiles smacks him in the chest and leans over the center console, kissing Peter long and hard.

Peter gasps as they separate, and Stiles can't help but press more kisses against Peter's sinful mouth.

"I may be a baby, _baby_," Stiles murmurs against Peter's mouth, the air between shared between them growing hot and a little bit desperate. "But I still have a few tricks up my sleeve that might surprise you."

"Oh yeah?" Peter says, completely focused on Stiles' lips sucking at his jawline.

"Yeah, Daddy," Stiles says, moving fast and straddling Peter in the driver's seat. Peter, dazed and pliant by Stiles' demanding kisses, doesn't react in time to stop Stiles from biting firmly at the vulnerable line of his throat.

Peter freezes, eyes flying open and his hands coming up to claw at Stiles' narrow waist.

Stiles bites down harder.

Peter, a seasoned and unapologetic killer, is surprised at how okay he is with Stiles at his throat.

And at that moment—in the parking lot of a mediocre Holiday Inn in Miami—two facts that will irrevocably change Peter's life crystalize in his mind.

"You know, don't you?" Peter whispers, stunned in a way that he's beginning to suspect only Stiles can make him.

"Of course I do, _Fenrir_," Stiles soothes, pressing gentle kisses into the spot that he's decided now belongs to him. "Some of my best friends are werewolves."

All of the tension melts out of Peter's body. He finally stops avoiding Stiles' bright eyes, and it's then that Peter allows himself to sink deep down into the hungry certainty of the wolf that lives inside him.

Peter lunges forward, cradling Stiles' head in his hands as he ravages the man's mouth. He kisses him with the knowledge that the fledgling spark between them is new and fun and so very delicious and something—at least if Peter has any say over it—that won't ever stop.

When they part this time, Stiles is the one left panting. "God, you're so hot."

Peter smiles, the edges of it smug and content. "I know, baby." He smacks Stiles' ass sharply, grabbing a good handful after to soothe the sting. "Now let's get inside and waste away a few days on the Agency's dime."

Stiles grins, eyes lighting up in excitement. "Fuck yes, Peter." He scrambles over Peter's lap, tripping over his own feet as he launches himself out of the car. He leans back into the car and kisses Peter quickly. "I can't wait for you to fucking own my ass, Daddy."

And then he skips away to the hotel.

Peter's wolf rises to the forefront at the thought of giving chase, but he takes a moment to collect himself before getting out of the car.

He grabs their luggage and saunters lazily toward the hotel, and it's when the wolf allows Peter this indulgence that he _knows_.

There's no reason to rush, after all.

Peter knows, deep down in the marrow of his bones, that he already owns that sweet, insufferable ass.

It's just a little matter of letting Stiles know, too.


	5. He Ain't What He Seems

Stiles perks up when he hears the faint _snick! _of the hotel suite's door opening and closing. He closes his eyes and lets the warm spray of the shower wash over his face. Stiles has to hold back a moan at the thought of what he and Peter are going to do for the next twelve hours.

The mere thought of it makes Stiles want to drop to his knees.

Again.

Stiles' normally steady hands tremble slightly in anticipation. He soaps up quickly, calling out for Peter to come into the bathroom.

Silent, prowling footsteps stop just outside of the shower curtain and then Stiles hears an amused, "You caterwauled, baby?"

Stiles pokes his head out from behind the plastic curtain and pouts. "Now that's just mean, Peter."

Peter huffs quietly and rests his forearm against the wall next to the spot where Stiles is peeking out from, leaning forward until their lips are only inches apart. "Did you need something specific?" Peter asks seductively. "An extra pair of hands, perhaps?"

Stiles lets his face drift even closer to Peter's. He watches as Peter presses closer in response, the werewolf's eyes flashing blue and his breath hitching.

It's when Peter's cheeks flush slightly that Stiles lets his lips stretch into a cheeky grin. "Actually, no," Stiles answers, pulling himself back quickly. "I just wanted to ask you to bring my bag into the bathroom." Stiles winks and then yanks the curtain shut.

A feral growl fills the room, making Stiles laugh silently in victory.

"Mother Moon, you're a tease, aren't you?" Peter rumbles. Stiles can hear him grumble to himself, the words becoming fainter as Peter exits the bathroom.

Stiles has to bite down on his knuckles to keep his laughter contained when Peter stomps back into the room, dropping Stiles' duffle bag onto the floor in a way that can only be described as a werewolf assassin's blue ball-fueled temper tantrum.

_Try saying that five times fast._

"Thank you, Daddy!" Stiles sing-songs cheerfully, voice warbling with suppressed laughter.

He showers off the suds on his body leisurely, shutting off the water before grabbing one of the towels hanging next to the bath.

Stiles pats himself down and tosses the towel over the curtain rail. He patters over to his duffel and scrounges through it, pulling out his favorite sleepwear set.

_God, his Daddy is going to love this._

Stiles puts his clothes on the sink basin, running a comb through his damp hair before mussing it up artfully and letting it fall gently around his face.

He smiles to himself in the mirror before grabbing the bottle of lube he keeps in the side pocket of his bag.

Nimble fingers and an already thoroughly ravaged backside make his preparation quick, and by the time he's ready to get dressed, Stiles is already half under.

He breathes in and out slowly as he pulls on a fresh pair of panties, knowing deep down in his gut that this—this right here in a shitty Miami hotel room—is the start of something new. Something real and strong and likely to last the rest of his life.

Stiles isn't quite sure where the certainty is coming from, but it's there, thick in the air like the steam from his shower. He feels it in the ache in his chest and in the throb of his ass.

Stiles trusts it, whatever _it_ is, because for a guy like Stiles, trusting his instincts is the only way to live.

He twirls a bit when he gets his underwear seated perfectly on his narrow hips. They're silk, a soft baby-doll pink, and bikini-cut. They're covered in artful layers of ruffles, and two bows hold the whole ensemble together where they're tied at his waist.

They're completely and utterly ridiculous, and one of his favorite pairs.

Stiles grabs his oversized gray sweater and pulls it on over his head, letting the sleeves cover his hands and the stretched neck hang off of his right shoulder.

He sits down on the toilet and unrolls his thigh-high socks. They're a lighter shade of gray, knitted with two light pink stripes circling the tops.

When Stiles is done, he stands and looks himself over in the mirror.

_Fuck, he's hot._

He gives himself a confidence-boosting bro-nod in the mirror, turns the lights off, and then slinks out of the bathroom.

Stiles finds his Daddy sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed, jacket and tie off and his shirt partially unbuttoned. He's on the phone, his words terse and strangely soft—like he has something important to say, but he hates who he's saying it to.

Stiles hears the words _human_ and _can't be_ and _are you sure?_

And then Peter's shoulders grow tenser and his phone creaks slightly under his tightening grip—and Stiles can't stand the sight of him upset, so he does the one thing that he can.

Stiles lets his body language grow softer, slumping against the wall where he's standing. He uses his free hand to scrunch up his sweater, angling his bared hip outward to show off the pretty ruffles and bows of his panties.

He lets his mind drop even further, Peter's mere presence in the room just enough to let Stiles' hindbrain know that it's safe to do so.

It's a fucking rush, exactly like it was in the bathroom only a few short hours ago.

Stiles lets himself grow soft for Peter, and then he bites his lip and lets out a soft and needy, "Daddy."

Peter's double-take will forever be imprinted on Stiles' brain.

The man looks over quickly, his eyes still distant while he listens to whoever's on the other end of the line. And then a split second passes, Peter's eyes widening as he looks back at Stiles.

Peter's eyes glaze over, his mouth parting in surprise.

Stiles pads over to where his Daddy is sitting, motioning for the man to scoot back a little. When Peter complies readily, Stiles slowly crawls on the bed, settling himself on top of his Daddy's lap.

He braces one sock-covered knee on each side of Peter's thick thighs, gently squirming in Peter's lap until Stiles is able to settle his ruffled ass right on top of his Daddy's cock.

Stiles takes the phone out of Peter's hand, and the man doesn't even blink. He hangs up the phone and then tosses it over his shoulder.

Peter lets out a shaky breath as Stiles places both of his hands on Peter's broad shoulders, stroking and petting until the man is panting in his arms.

"Do you want me, Daddy?" Stiles whispers.

Peter nods quickly, the werewolf leaning forward for a kiss.

"Okay then," Stiles breathes, lips hot and wet against Peter's. He lets his hands travel down the muscular expanse of Peter's chest until he finds the man's belt buckle. Stiles makes quick work of Peter's belt and pants, reaching one hand inside and pulling his Daddy's cock out.

"Okay," Stiles repeats, kneeling up and over Peter's hard length until he feels it pressed against the split of his cheeks.

Peter moans, burying his face in Stiles' neck and his hands in the ruffles of Stiles' silky, pink underwear.

Stiles reaches a hand back and slides his panties to the side. He takes ahold of Peter's cock and slowly lowers himself down.

Peter jolts under him, twitching violently and looking back up at Stiles worriedly, groaning out, "Wait—Stiles! Are you…? We didn't—" Peter falls silent as Stiles easily glides down his cock, coming to rest fully in the man's lap.

Peter's hands tighten and release their grip on Stiles' ass in rapid, little movements. He looks into Stiles' eyes dazedly. "So warm, Stiles," he practically purrs. "You…for me. So hot and slick and open." Peter gasps against Stiles' lips. "Just for me."

"Yes, Daddy," Stiles whispers, reaching out to balance his hands on Peter's shoulders. Stiles rocks his hips, clenching around the cock in his ass until they both moan. "Just for you."

It's practically silent as Stiles leisurely fucks himself on Peter's cock. He starts by raising himself up and down on his knees, bouncing in slow motion as he lets himself feel every inch of his Daddy.

Then he decides he wants it even slower, so Stiles sinks all the way down and grinds his hips.

Peter whines into his mouth, their tongues tangling wetly as Stiles rolls his hips in circles and clenches rhythmically around Peter's cock.

He fucks himself on his Daddy's cock until he can feel Peter's hands on his ass start to shake, until he notices fangs start to bite at his lips and the cock inside him starts to twitch.

"Daddy, please," he begs softly, knowing that this one's for his Daddy. That this time is all about Peter's relaxed shoulders and darkened eyes and fucked-out hair.

That it's all about what Stiles can do for his Daddy.

How he can be _so good._

Peter moans. His hips start to rock up into Stiles in short, aborted thrusts.

"Daddy I want it," Stiles pants, sweat trickling down the backs of his knees. He leans forward and nibbles at Peter's ear. "I want it," Stiles whispers. "Daddy, I want your cum. Please fucking come in my ass, I need it so bad."

Peter trembles underneath him, his thrusts becoming more and more erratic until Stiles can't take it anymore.

He throws his weight forward, knocking Peter backward until he's sprawled on the bed. Stiles straddles Peter's waist and slams himself down to the root.

Peter howls as Stiles tightens around him, fingers puncturing the sheets. Stiles gets a good grip on Peter's pectorals and then starts to fucking ride the man into the mattress.

"I fucking _want it_," Stiles pants harshly. The sound of their coupling fills the room—the breathy sighs and soft squelch from earlier turning into desperate huffs for air and skin slapping against skin.

Stiles keeps his pace brutal and efficient, his fingers digging into Peter's chest as he twerks his ass on Peter's cock.

"Give it to me," Stiles begs. "Please, Daddy! _Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease_—"

And then Peter fucking snarls, back bowing and he fucks up mindlessly into Stiles. He moans and moans as he fills Stiles' ass, Peter's hands darting out and gripping Stiles' waist to ride out his orgasm.

"Yes!" Stiles breathes. "_Yes_. Thank you—thank you so much, Daddy! Oh, _fuck!_" Stiles rolls his hips as Peter comes down from his high.

Neither of them can look away from the other.

A few minutes pass before both of their breathing evens out. Stiles leans forward and rests his head on Peter's chest, snuffling into the lightly furred area over his heart. He feels one of Peter's hands sneak between them and curl around his aching erection.

"Not yet," Stiles says, lifting his head to meet Peter's questioning gaze. "I want you to fuck it out of me."

Peter growls, his hand squeezing once around Stiles' cock before letting go. He searches Stiles' face, and he must find whatever he's looking for because Peter sighs happily.

Contentedly.

"You're so fucking perfect, baby," Peter rumbles, shaking his head in awed disbelief. "I'm going to ruin you."

And he does.

Peter has him five more times that night.

He has him on his back, Stiles' long legs trembling around Peter's waist as he comes in his pink panties.

Peter has him with Stiles' face buried in the pillows, his legs spread obscenely as Peter ruts against the plump curve of his ass. Peter watches Stiles' hole as it swallows his cock, the whole picture perfected by the silk bows Peter uses holds onto as he comes.

He has him on the edge of the bed, Stiles' back laying flat and his legs bent up around Peter's shoulders as his Daddy kneels naked on the floor—Peter's tongue in his ass as he eats out Stiles until he comes again.

Peter has him like a bitch in heat, on the ground in front of the hall mirror. Stiles' knees rub raw against the scratchy carpet and Peter's claws trace red lines up and down his spine as he takes him savagely. Stiles lowers his shoulders to the floor, curving his body at the perfect angle for Peter to fuck into him with abandon. Peter snarls when Stiles closes his eyes, fisting a hand through Stiles' hair and lifting his head until he has to meet Peter's feral, possessive gaze in the mirror. Stiles comes screaming, drool dripping down his face and Peter's own spend sliding down his thighs.

He has him in the early hours of the morning, both of them naked and sleepy and just a little too sore. Peter works him over until Stiles cries, body shaking and eyes burning with want.

When it's over—when both are too tired to continue and anything but sated—Peter curls himself around Stiles, equal parts unconscious and aware of the rapidly cementing bond between them.

It's quiet at 3:17 am, and Peter is just working up enough courage in the dark to start the conversation that needs to be started, when all of a sudden Stiles whispers, "I don't want this to be over."

Peter tightens his hold around Stiles' middle and scents this beautiful, brave boy. "As far as I'm concerned," Peter says lightly. "This will never be over."

Stiles freezes in his arms.

Peter traces an idle thumb across Stiles' belly button. "You said you had friends that were werewolves, correct?"

"Yes," Stiles replies quietly, his heart beating faster with uncertain anticipation.

"Have they ever mentioned the concept of mates before?"

Stiles lets out a shuddering breath.

Oh.

_Oh_.

"Oh," he breathes out. "Oh, _fuck_."

"Exactly," Peter agrees.

Stiles' busy mind falls quiet, and then it's just him and Peter together in a room. No doubts, no worries, no thoughts about the Agency or the real-life consequences of two of the world's top assassins becoming completely and thoroughly compromised.

By each other.

"I've always wanted a partner," Stiles says slowly, the words tasting like candy on his tongue. He thinks about the aches and pains in literally _all of his muscles_ and smiles. "And it looks like you might even keep up with me."

Peter retaliates by tweaking Stiles' right nipple sharply. "Cheeky, darling. Are you looking for a spanking?"

Stiles groans. "No, Daddy."

"Well then behave, pet," Peter murmurs in his ear. "We have a hell of a day tomorrow and I don't want to stay up all night to teach you a lesson." He tweaks Stiles' nipple again. "But I will if I have to, baby."

"I'll be good," Stiles giggles, completely and utterly lost in the sensation of being _Peter's_. "I'll be the best you ever had."

"I know, Stiles," Peter says quietly as he snuggles them further into the sheets. "You already are."


End file.
